He turned to look at his reflection again.
“Maybe,” Elly said, “you should take it off now, so it’ll be fresh when you get sworn in.”
He looked at her again. She was unbuttoning her dress.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she said softly. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I’ve always wanted to go to bed with a Marine officer.”
“I’m not a Marine officer yet,” he said. “Not until oh-eight-thirty day after tomorrow.”
“Then I guess you want to wait till then?” she asked.
“No, what the hell,” Captain-designate Jack NMI Stecker, USMC, Reserve, said. “Take what you can whenever you can get it, I always say.”
X
(One)
Quantico, Virginia
1 September 1941
The U.S. Rifle, Caliber .30, Ml, was known as the Garand, after its inventor, John B. Garand, a civilian employee of the U.S. Army’s Springfield Arsenal. The Garand fired the same cartridge as the U.S. Rifle, Model 1903, the U.S. Rifle, Model 1903A3, and the Browning light machine guns. This cartridge was known as the .30-06.
The 1903-series rifles, known as “Springfields,” were five-shot rifles, operated by a bolt. This bolt was a variation of the action designed by the Mauserwerke in Germany in the late 1800s and had been adapted by the United States after the Spanish-American war. The Spanish Army’s Mausers were clearly superior to the American rifles. And when Theodore Roosevelt, who had faced the Spanish Mausers on his march up Kettle and San Juan Hills in Cuba, became President, pretty nearly his first order as Commander in Chief was to provide the military services with a Mauser-type weapon. A royalty was paid to the Mauser Company, and the Springfield Arsenal began manufacture of a near-copy of the Mauser Model 1898, differing from it in caliber and some minor details.
The Spanish Mausers had 7-mm bores, and the German 7.92. The Springfield Rifles had .30-caliber (7.62-mm) bores. In 1906, an improved .30 caliber was developed, which became known as the .30–06. The Springfield rifles served in World War I, where they proved reliable, efficient, and extremely accurate.
Development of the Garand began in the early 1930’s, when General Douglas MacArthur was Army Chief of Staff. It was accepted for service, and production began in 1937.
It had a magazine capacity of eight rounds, as opposed to the Springfield’s five. Far more important, it was semiautomatic. Once a spring clip of eight rounds was loaded into the weapon and the bolt permitted to move forward, it would fire the eight rounds as rapidly as the marksman could pull the trigger. When the last shot was fired, the clip was ejected, the bolt remained in its rearward position, and another eight-round clip could be quickly loaded.
The Ordnance Corps of the United States Army (which is charged with providing every sort of weaponry, from pistols to artillery, to the United States Marine Corps) was convinced that it was the best infantry rifle in the world. In the opinion of most Marines, the U.S. Rifle Caliber .30, Ml “Garand” was a Buck Rogers piece of shit with which only the lucky could hit a barn door at ten paces.
Experience had taught the Corps that skilled marksmen were very often the key to victory in a battle. Experience had further taught the Corps that the key to skilled marksmanship—in addition to the basics of trigger squeeze sight picture, and the rest of the technique crap—was joining together a Marine and his rifle so that they became one. A Marine was thus taught that first he cleaned and oiled his piece, then he could think of maybe getting something to eat and a place out of the rain to sleep. The Marine Corps further believed that an officer should not order his men to do anything he could not do himself.
There were two schools of thought concerning the issue of the U.S. Rifle, Caliber .30, Ml to the students of the Platoon Leader’s Course. The official reason was that nothing was too good for the young men who possibly would soon be leading Marines in a war. It therefore followed that the young gentlemen be issued the newest, finest item in the Marine Corps’ small weapons inventory. In the opinion of most Marines, however, the reason it was being issued to the young gentlemen of the Platoon Leader’s Course was that real rifles were needed for real Marines.
It was therefore not surprising that Item #2 on the Training Schedule for Day #1 of Platoon Leader’s Course 23-41 (right after “#1 Welcoming Remarks, Major J.J. Hollenbeck, USMC”) was the issuance of rifles—Garand rifles—to the young gentlemen.
Some of the young gentlemen were wearing Marine Corps dungarees (sometimes called “utilities”) and work shoes. They had been issued these uniforms during previous summer training periods. It was the prescribed uniform of the day.
But some of the young gentlemen, including Malcolm Pickering, were still in civilian clothing. It was not that they didn’t have dungarees, but that they had not considered that day #1 would begin at 0345 hours and that they would be given ninety seconds to get out of bed, dress, and fall in outside the barracks. They presumed that they would have a couple of minutes to take their dungarees from their luggage before they stood the first formation and were marched to breakfast. There were 112 members of Platoon Leader’s Course 23–41, and about a dozen of them were in civilian clothing. Most were in shirts and slacks, but there were two, including Malcolm Pickering, who had at the last second grabbed their jackets. Pickering had even managed to grab his necktie.
He was standing in the rear rank tying his necktie when he came to the attention of the Assistant Drill Instructor, a barrel-chested corporal of twenty-nine years with a nearly shaven head and a voice made harsh by frequent vocal exertion. His name was Pleasant, which later became the subject of wry observation by the young gentlemen.
On seeing movement in the rear rank, Corporal Pleasant walked quickly and erectly between the ranks until he was standing before Pickering. He then put his hands on his hips and inclined his head forward, so that the stiff brim of his campaign hat just about touched Pickering’s forehead, and so that Pickering could smell Corporal Pleasant’s toothpaste when he shouted.
“What the fuck are you doing, asshole?”
“I was tying my tie, sir,” Pickering said, coming to attention. He was not entirely a rookie. He had been to two previous summer training encampments and knew that as a trainee, he was expected to come at attention when addressed by an assistant drill instructor, and to call him “sir,” although in the real Marine Corps only commissioned officers were entitled to such courtesy.
“Why are you wearing a tie, asshole?” Corporal Pleasant inquired.
Pickering could think of no good answer to that.
“I asked you a question, asshole!” Corporal Pleasant reminded him.
“No excuse, sir,” Pickering said, another remembered lesson from previous summers. One did not offer excuses. There was no excuse for not doing what you were supposed to do, or for doing what you were not supposed to do. The proper response in a situation like that was the one he had just given.
Corporal Pleasant was more than a little disappointed. He had hoped to have the opportunity to make an example of this candy-ass would-be officer, not because he disliked him personally, but because it would get the others in the right frame of mind. But there was nothing to do now but return to the front of the formation, which he did.
The young gentlemen were marched from the company to battalion headquarters, where Major J.J. Hollenbeck, USMC, on behalf of the Commanding General, U.S. Marine Schools, welcomed them to Quantico and wished them well during their course of instruction.
They were next marched to the company supply room. There they were issued a U.S. Rifle, Caliber .30, Ml; a Sling, leather; and a Kit, Individual, for U.S. Rifle, Caliber .30, M1. This consisted of a chamber brush and a folding screwdriver (all of one piece); a waxed cord and a patch holder that could be used (by dropping it down the bore) if a Rod, Cleaning, for U.S. Rifles, Model 1903 and Ml was not available; and a small plastic vial of a yellow grease, known as Lubricant, solid, for U.S. Rifle, Caliber .30, Ml.
The rifles cam
e in individual heavy wrapping paper, which appeared greasy. The reason it was greasy was that the rifles themselves were thickly coated with Cosmoline to protect them from rust while in storage.
Corporal Pleasant gave the young gentlemen rudimentary instruction in the assembly of the Sling, leather, and its attachment to the U.S. Rifle, caliber .30, Ml, and then informed them that by 0345 the next morning, he expected the rifles to be cleaned, and that each individual would be expected, by 1300 that very day, to be as familiar with the serial number of the weapon as he was with his beloved mother’s face.
“Where’s the serial number?” one baffled young gentleman asked. “This fucking thing’s covered with grease!”
It was the opportunity Corporal Pleasant had been waiting for.
The first thing the baffled young gentleman was required to do, while double-timing in place with the rifle held above his head, was shout “This is not my fucking thing. My fucking thing is between my legs. This is my rifle. I will not forget the difference.” When he had recited this litany ten times, he was ordered to run around the arms-room building, with his rifle at port arms, accompanied by two other young gentlemen who had the erroneous idea that his calling his rifle his fucking thing was amusing and had smiled.
The young gentlemen were then double-timed to the mess hall for breakfast.
And it was there that Platoon Leader Candidate Pickering first saw Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy. At first he didn’t place him. The face looked familiar, but he thought it was a face from other summer training camps. Then he remembered who he was.
His first reaction was distaste. Breakfast was scrambled eggs and bacon and home-fried potatoes, two pieces of bread and a lump of butter. The only thing that Pickering considered safe to put in his mouth were the home-fried potatoes. The eggs were cold and lumpy, the bacon half-raw, and the bread dried-out. McCoy was wolfing down this garbage as if he hadn’t had a decent meal in a week.
Pickering watched, fascinated, as McCoy ate everything on his stainless steel tray, even wiping it clean with a piece of the stale bread.
When he had finished, McCoy picked up his tray and walked toward the mess hall exit. Pickering picked up his near-full tray and followed him.
Corporal Pleasant was there, standing before garbage cans under signs reading “Edible Garbage” and “Non-Edible Garbage.”
Corporal Pleasant examined McCoy’s tray, and with a curt nod of his head, passed him outside.
When Pick Pickering reached Corporal Pleasant, Corporal Pleasant said, “Over there, asshole,” indicating with a nod of his head a group of perhaps a dozen young gentlemen holding their trays, U.S. Rifles, Caliber .30, Ml slung over their shoulders, standing against the concrete-block wall.
Eventually there were nearly thirty young gentlemen who had not found their breakfast appetizing and had left much, in some cases most, of it on their trays.
Corporal Pleasant stood before them.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “The Marine Corps loves you. Because the Marine Corps loves you, it has gone to considerable effort and expense to provide you with a healthy, nutritious breakfast. The Marine Corps expects you to eat the healthy, nutritious breakfast it has provided for you.”
The young gentlemen looked at him in some confusion for a moment. Then one of them, delicately holding his stainless steel tray in one hand, tried to fork a lump of scrambled egg with the other hand while simultaneously going into contortions trying to keep his U.S. Rifle, Caliber .30, M1 from slipping off his shoulder.
Corporal Pleasant immediately stepped in front of him, put his hands on his hips, and inclined his head so that the stiff brim of his campaign cap almost touched the young gentleman’s forehead.
“What the fuck are you doing, asshole?” Corporal Pleasant inquired.
“Sir,” the young gentleman bellowed, “eating my breakfast, sir!”
“With a fork! Did you hear me say anything, asshole, about eating with a fork?”
“No, sir!”
The young gentleman looked at him in absolute confusion, not quite able to accept what Corporal Pleasant seemed to be suggesting.
Corporal Pleasant nodded his head.
“Eat, asshole!” he said. “Every last fucking crumb!”
The young gentleman raised the tray, and then lowered his face and began to gulp and lick the tray.
Corporal Pleasant looked at the others.
“On my command,” he said, “slurp it up. Ready, slurp!”
Nearly thirty young gentlemen raised their stainless steel trays to their faces and slurped.
When Pickering went outside the mess hall, McCoy was waiting where the trainees would be formed in ranks. There was a barely perceptible smile on his face. Pickering went and stood beside him.
“Now I know why you ate everything on your tray,” he said.
“I’ve been through this sort of shit before,” McCoy said.
“What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?”
“I thought you were going to get out of the Marine Corps?”
“You were right, there’s a freeze on discharges,” McCoy said.
“Well, we can buddy around,” Pickering said. “That’ll be nice.”
“It would be a bad idea,” McCoy said.
“Why?” Pickering asked, surprised, wondering why McCoy was rejecting him. “Why do you say that?”
“I know about Pleasant,” McCoy said. “Or people like him. If there’s one thing he hates more than a college boy who wants to be an officer, it’s another corporal who wants to be an officer. As soon as he finds out that I’m a Marine, he’ll start in on me.”
“So we’ll be even,” Pickering said. “He’s already started on me.”
“Take my word for it, Pickering,” McCoy said. “It would be worse if he knew we were buddies. For both of us.”
“I don’t understand,” Pickering said.
“You don’t have to understand,” McCoy said. “Just take my word for it. Stay away from me.”
“Well, fuck you,” Pickering said, his feelings hurt.
McCoy smiled at him.
“That’s the spirit,” he said. “Pick, honest to God, I know what I’m talking about,” McCoy said. “Sooner or later, they’ll have to give us some time off. Then we can see if there are any fourteen-year-old virgins in Virginia. But what you have to do until we can get away from that prick, especially if you plan to get through the course, is make yourself invisible.”
Pickering still didn’t understand. But he realized he was enormously relieved that McCoy was not rejecting his friendship. Then he wondered why he was so relieved.
(Two)
Company “C” Marine Corps School Battalion
Quantico, Virginia
1805 Hours 1 September 1941
Corporal Pleasant placed the platoon “at ease” and then announced that it was now his intention to show them how to disassemble the Cosmoline-covered rifles they had been carrying around all day.
When they had them apart, they would clean them, Corporal Pleasant said. He would return at 2100 hours and inspect the cleaned pieces, and then he would show them how to reassemble their rifles. He knew, he continued, that they all wished to begin Day #2 of their training with spotless rifles. Good Marines prided themselves on having clean pieces.
This was pure chickenshit, Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy decided. A little chickenshit was to be expected, and was probably even a good thing: Pleasant had to make it absolutely clear to these college boys that they were under his absolute control. The college boys who had slurped their breakfast from their trays would never again take more chow than they could eat from the mess line. There had been a point to that.
But there was no point to this rifle-cleaning idea except to make everybody miserable. Except, of course, that Pleasant wanted something on every last one of them that would give him an excuse to jump their ass. There was absolutely no way to remove all the Cosmoline from a rifle with rags. C
osmoline did what it was intended to do, preventing rust by filling every last nook, crevice, and pore in both the action and the stock. You could wipe for fucking ever, and there would still be Cosmoline oozing out someplace.
There were two good ways to clean Cosmoline from a weapon. The best (and most dangerous) was with five gallons of gasoline in the bottom of a garbage can. If you didn’t strike a spark and blow your ass up, the gasoline would dissolve the Cosmoline.
The second way was with boiling water. You took a field mess water heater1 and filled it with rifle actions and let the sonsofbitches boil like lobsters.
Pleasant was offering neither alternative. He was just being a prick, and McCoy decided there was a limit to the chickenshit he would take. He had promised himself he would keep his nose clean, stay out of sight, and do whatever was demanded of him. But that did not go so far as spending the next three hours in a futile attempt to rub a rifle free of Cosmoline.
He was standing one rank behind and three files to the left of Pick Pickering as Corporal Pleasant delivered his lecture on the disassembly of the U.S. Rifle Caliber .30, M1. He considered for a moment taking Pickering with him, but decided against it. For one thing, cleaning an uncleanable rifle was probably an essential part of training for a college boy. For another, Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy was about to go AWOL, which (as Corporal Pleasant had with some relish informed them during one of the lectures during the day) was frowned upon. Anyone caught AWOL (defined as not being in the proper place, at the proper place, at the proper time, in the properly appointed uniform) would instantly have his ass shipped to a rifle company and could forget pinning the gold bars of a second lieutenant on his shoulders.
When they were dismissed and double-timed into the barracks, McCoy went directly to the latrine and washed his hands as well as he could with GI soap. Then he grabbed his Garand with a rag, and went out the back door of the barracks.
As he made his way toward the provost marshal’s Impound Yard, he considered that after successfully evading every Jap sentry in Shantung Province, it was entirely possible that he’d be nailed cold by some eager college boy guarding a barracks with an unloaded Garand.
Semper Fi Page 25
